Orange

Maybe New York is a city of birds. Feathers flying from their ears and cloaking them, those birds who strut. But my bones are shut up in this body, as if the stripes on my shirt were jail bars. You have graffiti sticking to your back like sweat, and yet that ink serves as wings. Still, you've been so hungry that you nibbled my skin like a pigeon in Central Park that neared me. You don't know about that pigeon, that's a memory all my own that reminds me of my independence from you. But, god, you have dead eyes.